


Love Is a Burning Thing

by cymbalism



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Derek is a traumatized wolf, Locker Room, M/M, Rescue, Smut, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek saves Stiles from a fire. Soot-covered wall!sex results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is a Burning Thing

  
  
Stiles is still coughing when Derek drops him against the lockers, sucking in air only to choke on it. Stiles's legs barely stay under him, but he manages to remain on his feet, even though he's doubled over with coughing. Derek pries him upright, hands smoothing over his chest, his sides, lifting his singed t-shirt to check for burns.

Derek had run them to the school because it was nearby, and to the locker room because it had first aid supplies, doors with locks, and showers, if necessary. But he wasn't finding any wounds on Stiles.

"You're okay, you're okay," he repeats, breathing hard, though he isn't sure if he’s saying it for Stiles's benefit or his own.

It's been two years since Derek spotted Stiles in the woods with Scott and too many years since Derek's home and family were destroyed by fire. But the second he realized that Stiles was trapped in that burning building, Derek knew he couldn't let Stiles die the same way.

Derek supposed the hunters thought it was some grand kind of symmetry, setting the werewolves’ latest den on fire. It had the double effect of traumatizing Derek and crippling the pack. No one expected he would run into the smoke and flames instead of away from them, himself included.

But Stiles—

"I'm alive," Stiles says once he can speak. He's panting, head tilted back against the locker, eyes closed. "I'm alive and—" he lifts his head and looks right at Derek, "You saved me." He sounds confused and Derek's chest twinges.

He's close to Stiles, too close. Nearly pressed up against him, one hand at his ribs, the other running from the top of his head to his shoulder, still searching for blood or burns. Stiles's skin is covered in ash, streaked through with sweat. Derek is sure he looks the same, white t-shirt smudged at the chest and shoulders from having carried Stiles out of the flames. Stiles smells like carbon, like the past, and Derek shuts his eyes against flashes of the house, the smell of burnt skin. But Stiles is here, whole and alive—warm, not burning. Breathing, not screaming.

"Wh— Why did you save me?"

_As if you don't know,_ Derek thinks. As if they haven't been circling each other for months, maybe for those whole two years.

But Stiles's eyes are wide with shock, his jaw gaping.

"Because Scott was busy," Derek growls and takes Stiles's mouth with his.

He’s almost startled when Stiles responds, kissing him back eagerly. A pressure begins to build in Derek's chest, expanding out hot and fast, flashing through his veins. He wants this. He wants the way Stiles tastes, the way his hands clench in Derek's shirt, the way his tongue slides deep along his. He wants _Stiles_. Wants to protect him, fuck him, belong to him.

Derek saved Stiles because Scott was tangling with hunters. Derek saved Stiles because he'd volunteered to be the one to stay behind and didn't deserve to die for them. Derek saved Stiles because he can't lose anyone else to flames and he can't lose Stiles at all.

He sinks into the kiss and presses his body fully against Stiles's, chest to thigh. Stiles cants his hips forward so fast it feels involuntary but his groin fits snug just below Derek's. Derek pushes back, wedging a thigh against Stiles's sudden hard-on. And he forgets to hold back, forgets everything but the pounding of their heartbeats, their blood as it surges through their bodies. He kisses Stiles like breathing, like the deep natural gulps of air and energy that leave your heart racing after a wild run through the woods. But then Stiles is pawing frantically at his chest.

"Wait, wait, wait. Is Scott okay?" he asks, breathless. "He's not, like, dying while I'm about to—oh god oh god—" He loses his words as Derek rocks his hip, pushing his thigh between Stiles's legs, putting the right kind of pressure in the right places. Stiles rides him for a second in stunned silence before regaining his voice. "—About to come my pants, or anything?" he finishes, dazed.

"No," Derek says, still all panicky want, still nipping at Stiles's mouth. "He's fine."

Stiles nods. "Thanks," he says. "For saving me, I mean. And don't worry," his hands find Derek's, which are clamped in a clawless but possessive death grip on his sides, "I'm not going anywhere." He smiles, half shy, and Derek gets that he's being teased, but he can't bring himself to laugh it off.

"No, you're not," he agrees. He slides his hands down to latch under Stiles's ass and _lifts_ , sliding him up the cold metal of the locker and slotting his hips between Stiles's thighs.

"What, what? Whoa, hey—" Stiles babbles surprise even as his legs wrap around Derek's waist, pulling him tight. Derek can feel the hard heat of their erections together even through layers of denim.

Stiles whimpers as Derek darts in to lick at his neck.

He tastes like soot. Of course he does. But he also tastes like _Stiles_ , like the scent Derek would know anywhere now—dryer sheets and Adderall, the after shave he shares with his dad. And he's lost the too-young musk that used to hold Derek back.

Derek kisses him again. He knows there were a thousand reasons why he hasn't done this before, why he wasn't going to do it all, but can't think of one as Stiles slides his tongue along his bottom lip then pushes into his mouth, one hand coming up to hold the scruff at the base of Derek's skull.

Everything surges again in a blur of heartbeats and hormones. He sinks into his senses, letting just a little bit of wolf take over, all unthinking experience. Derek hitches Stiles in his grip, loving the weight of him, the fact and flesh of him. He scrapes his teeth behind Stiles's ear and rocks into his body. He pushes up and against, small nudges just enough until Stiles can hardly return his kisses, head lolling on the locker behind him and chanting all his oh gods. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and sucks in a breath. "Shit, Derek, stop. I mean, don't stop. But stop, stop."

Derek's beyond words but not beyond orders. He relaxes his hold and lets Stiles's legs drop to the tile floor. But he undoes Stiles's jeans, tugging them just off his hips, because he has no intention of stopping. What's driving him now is more primal than the wolf born into him—he can't hold it back, turn it off. He doesn't know how much he's allowed, how much is too much to take, to give, but Stiles is alive and writhing in his hands, radiating a desire that matches Derek's own.

He keep Stiles propped on his unsteady knees and chases his scent downward, follows it under Stiles's collar, through his smoke-blackened t-shirt. Before he's fully aware of what he's doing, Derek is sliding to his knees, nosing and nipping at Stiles's abs as he goes, skating his lips over planes of skin and muscle. When he gets to Stiles's boxers, he just keeps going, tucking his thumbs into the elastic band and pulling it over Stiles's hard-on. Derek's own dick twitches at the sight.

Stiles is craning his neck forward, mouth agape as he watches. Derek stares up at him, not able to hide the fear and relief and want all thrashing through his veins. He closes his eyes as he slips his mouth around Stiles’s smooth cock.

There's a clanging thud as Stiles's head hits the lockers.

"Fuck. Ow. Oh God." He exhales hard, trying to keep control. "Got rescued from a fire just to get a concussion,” he deadpans. His are words tight, like he's trying not to lose them. “Yeah, that's hot.”

The mention of fire makes Derek tense, and images flash through his mind—Stiles flinching away from a flaming chunk of plaster as it fell from the ceiling, Stiles wrapped in flickering red and black and orange.

But then Stiles's hands are pulling at his hair and cupping his jaw in a panic and he's calling out, "No teeth, no teeth!"

Derek doesn't obey this time. Instead he sucks Stiles in fully and lightly drags the sides of his fangs along the length his dick as he pulls off.

"Oh," Stiles gasps in surprise. "Okay, some teeth— Some teeth is okay," he pants.

Derek feels it the moment Stiles relaxes. The tension in his body evaporates as he lets Derek have him. His hands drift to Derek's jaw, fingers hooking the corners momentarily before he cups Derek’s chin in his palm, no doubt feeling his throat and tongue work. Derek gives a growl just to send the vibrations through him.

"Derek, you're— I'm— I want— come here. Get up, come here." He tugs at the shoulder of Derek's shirt. Derek can sense Stiles is close to coming, can feel him harden on his tongue. Stiles clenches his fingers hard in Derek’s hair and yanks. "Get up here _now_."

This time Derek complies. He gets to his feet and leans in once more. Stiles meets him with a kiss, not flinching from the taste of himself, and flicks through Derek's belt and fly without looking. It's Derek who goes weak-kneed when Stiles shoves his jeans down and takes Derek's dick in the same hand as his own with a squeeze. Derek loses his breath.

Stiles reaches his other hand around to Derek's ass, keeping him close and fisting them faster. "Fuck," he exhales.

Derek's forehead drops to the cold metal of the locker; he’s too overwhelmed to do otherwise. Somehow he hadn't imagined this, hadn't believed Stiles would do this to or want this from him. But there's a simmering thought in the back of his mind like he should've known, could've guessed after years of grudging trust and incremental closeness.

Stiles's hand is hot, his fingers braced around Derek's cock as he jacks them together, and Derek feels the slippery leak of pre-come. He can't keep his hips still. As he nudges up and pulls back, Stiles follows his motion, fist bumping between their bodies. Derek's hands drift down to the arcs of Stiles's hips and he kisses behind Stiles's ear, breath heavy and wet against his neck. It's all so good, too good.

Stiles is moaning, short, pleading sounds, and banging his heel against the locker. He comes with a shout and stutter of his hips, thumb skating over both their cocks, forcing his come to slide down, slipping between his fingers and coating Derek's dick. Derek jerks at the sudden slickness, closer to coming than he'd meant to be. Stiles kisses him, deep and thorough, warm tongue coaxing. "Please, Derek," he whispers when he pulls away, still working Derek in his hand. "You too. Please. I want it."

The fire's inside Derek now. A conflagration lit by Stiles, the heat devouring him from the inside out. But this is a fire he's not afraid of.

He stops Stiles's motion with a hand on his wrist. Taking himself in hand, he realigns his hips and slides his dick where Stiles's thighs meet, tucking in below his sensitive sac and burying into the hot scruff. Stiles whimpers and tightens his legs. Derek catches his balance by latching his mouth onto Stiles's collar bone. The muscles in his legs are burning from holding himself in pace, but the flames licking inside him are hotter and more insistent. He fucks into Stiles, just slick enough to slide and just enough friction to kick up the first smolder of orgasm low in his body.

When Stiles flexes his thighs, Derek slaps the metal locker and bites at Stiles’s neck. A few long, hard pumps and he comes with a roar of fire and blood and wolf. He pulls out from between Stiles's thighs and spills onto his abdomen, realizing as he does that Stiles is watching it happen, head bent down at his canted hips, watching Derek's come hit his skin.

But then Stiles looks up at him, all wide eyes and pretty, open mouth and, fuck. Derek would do it all again—run into a burning building, tear down walls, risk everything, do anything to keep that look forever.

All of the sudden he can't stand anymore. He stumbles backward and collapses to the bench behind him. As his shock wears off, insecurity sets in. He shuts his eyes and swallows. Those thousands of reasons he was never going to do this flood back, first  and foremost this one, this feeling that he's gotten too close, given away too much.

When he opens his eyes, Stiles is looking at him, concern spelled out along his thin lips and brow. He's got his boxers back in place, but his jeans are still open, just barely clinging at his hips. His t-shirt is ripped down the front in a way Derek's pretty sure it wasn't when he pulled him from the fire. Derek's heart and stomach clench. What if he saved this perfect thing only to mess it up?

Without a word Stiles steps forward and reaches out. Derek swallows again as Stiles's fingers trace over his temples, smoothing around to hook at his jaw again. He rubs one come-covered thumb under the curve of Derek's bottom lip just before bending down to kiss him. It's just a light kiss, with the briefest lick of tongue, their lips clinging as he pulls back slowly. Derek opens his eyes to see the strange strong brown of Stiles's own looking back at him, a familiar light flickering in them.

"Seriously," he says, squeezing Derek's jaw just a bit to emphasize his point, "Still not going anywhere."

And this time Derek thinks he just might believe him.

 

– end –

  



End file.
